


As Dark As You Make It

by weresquad (taehob)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Baggage, Fix-It, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Murphy Makes Friends, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season 2, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5415152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taehob/pseuds/weresquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a few months isolated in the lighthouse, John Murphy decides to go back to Camp Jaha. It's not until after he gets there that he thinks it might not have been his best idea. (Or maybe it is & he just doesn't know it yet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- There's a 50/50 chance the rating will eventually be changed to Mature or Explicit.  
> \- There will be no non-con, dub-con, underage, or major character death.  
> \- Any negativity towards the characters comes from Murphy's POV, not mine.  
> \- Title from Atreyu's Slow Burn.

John feels dead on his feet when he finally gets back to Camp Jaha. He nearly falls to his knees when he sees it, part relief, part defeat. He was so _weak_ , coming back to these people after they'd made it very clear that he wasn't welcome. He crossed a mine-riddled desert and monster infested waters to get back here. He's not even sure how he made it in one piece. Jaha would probably start spouting some God-esque bullshit.

"Murphy?"

John whips his head to the right to see Raven standing there, a guy behind her that he can't be bothered to remember the name of. He'd thought that the trip had drained him of anything but thirst but he was wrong. Anger surges through him at the sight of her face. He'd done really shitty things, but fuck if he hadn't been _trying_ before he left. He put his life on the line to go protect her ex-boyfriend and she'd tried throwing him to the grounders. Finn was still worth more than John even though he had more blood on his hands. Screw Raven.

He turns without acknowledging her and starts walking again, pulling the small wagon of his things behind him. She doesn't try to stop him to talk, apologize, or otherwise inflict bodily harm on him, which is all as well. Though he wouldn't admit it, he hesitates at the gate when the guard asks him to identify himself.

"John Murphy. Local asshole."

The guard grunts, not appreciating the joke, but lets him in. At least they haven't forgotten his existence in his time gone.

  
"Your belongings need to be inspected."

He clenches his teeth and steps away from the wagon as another voice calls for him.  
"Murphy, is that you?"

John looks over his shoulder, eyes meeting Clarke's. As she comes to stand in front of him, he thinks about how they'd left things and wonders for the eight-hundredth time why he thought being here with people who hated his guts would be better than being alone. "In the flesh," is what he says out loud and thinks bitterly right after that she'd probably like him better skinned and dead.

"Where have you been?" she asks, coming around to stand in front of him. There's still people staring. He can feel it, even if he's not looking at them.

"The third tier of Hell."

She gives him a once over and then nods her head to the side, indicating he should follow her.

He glances at his wagon and decides he may as well go with her while the guards check his stuff. Even though they're silent, people stare at him as he passes and it takes a minute to realize most of them are what's left of the hundred, including those that had been captured. The alliance worked, then. They beat Mt. Weather.

Clarke leads him into the large, metal death trap that the adults had come down in, promptly entering a room where Marcus Kane and Abby Griffin are sitting and talking. When they catch sight of him, they go quiet, shock clear across their faces.

Clarke sits down at the table with them. "What happened? Last we heard from the others that left with you, Jaha was leading you guys across the desert. They were sure it was a suicide mission."

John grabs a seat as well, sagging down in relief, but probably just looking insolent as always. "It was." He holds up a hand to start counting the perils with his fingers. "Dehydration. Hunger. Heat. Mugging. Assault. Land mines. Sea monsters. Oh, and of course watching Jaha go completely insane. Or maybe he was always that fucked up and I just didn't realize it."

Kane and Clarke look confused, but Griffin squares her shoulders and says, "Tell us everything. From the beginning."

* * *

"I heard you were back."

John is sitting against a tree, one leg up by his chest. He looks over as Bellamy settles down next to him, surprised to see a bottle being offered. He accepts and takes a large swig, relishing the way it burns all the way down his throat. He had depleted the small alcohol store in the lighthouse well before he left.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

John tips his head against the tree trunk and closes his eyes. "What, are we suddenly friends again?"

"Come on, Murphy. I thought we were over the past."

He thought so too, but he's pissed and exhausted and Bellamy probably didn't even notice he was gone so he's really not in the mood for a heart-to-heart. "You were really shitty, you know? I mean, I was too, but I wouldn't have done that to you."

Without being told _what_ , exactly, Bellamy still understands. "No, you would personally string me up."

John sighs and opens his eyes, staring at the leaves above them. "That wasn't the same and you know it. You tried hanging me for a crime I _didn't_ commit and then banished me to be tortured by Grounders when I went after the little bitch who started it all."

"I was wrong, okay? Is that what you need to hear? I was wrong. You were wrong. Nobody on this God forsaken planet is a saint. I'm sorry, Murphy."

Steeling himself, John finally meets his eyes. He'd trusted Bellamy before. Fuck, he _cared_ about him, much as he could care about anything. He hadn't just followed Bellamy because he was smart enough to know a leader when he saw one. He followed Bellamy because he saw someone worth following. And then everything fell apart. Story of his life. Nothing to cry at. "You waiting for an apology too?"

Bellamy rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed. "You know what? I tried." He stands, brushes off his clothes, and heads back the way he came from.

John feels his stomach turn and tries to drown the feeling in alcohol.

* * *

A gun is being pressed against John's chest and for once it's not someone trying to kill him. He glances at it, then at Bellamy.

"Things must not have gotten much better around here if you people are still trusting me with a gun."

Bellamy pushes it at him more forcefully. "We aren't _you people_ , Murphy. We're _your people_. You're _our people_. Stop being a martyr."

"I'm a people now? Are we finally counting split personalities as separate beings? I gotta tell you, man, that'll up our numbers by at least half." He finally takes the gun, letting it drop limply at his side.

Bellamy just scoffs and starts to walk away, leaving John to follow begrudgingly. Even after four days back, he's still turning some heads. A few of them look worried, what with the weapon in his hand and all. Falling into step beside Bellamy feels wrong. It's too different, too tense. They used to look at anyone outside their group as _other_ and now it was like _he_ was part of that.

The next few hours are spent mostly in silence as they hunt, and John is secretly grateful to have something to do. After who knows how long going stir crazy at the house across the desert, he can't take sitting around doing nothing for too long.

When they finally catch something, Bellamy gives him a small grin and moves in to gather the corpse. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he's not supposed to be fond of that look anymore.

* * *

"Murphy," Clarke says, crouching down next to him a few feet from the fire, and from everyone else.

"Princess," he answers, equally curt.

"Listen, me and Bellamy might not be on the greatest terms right now, but I still care about him. And I know him. He's trying, Murphy, and he's the only one, so stop being a dick."

The hairs on the back of John's neck prickle defensively. "Trying what?" he spits.

"To reach out. To be your friend. It's more than he's doing with me, so don't snub your nose at it."

"What the fuck, Griffin? Does it look like I signed up for couples' counseling? By the sound of it, it looks like you need some yourself. Trouble in paradise?"

Clarke looks like she wants to snap at him, and he waits for it, but it doesn't come. Instead, she stands and sighs, looking at him like you might at a kid that doesn't understand enough for the conversation you're trying to have with them. "Why do you keep pushing away the only person who gives a crap about you?"

John runs his fingers over the knife at his side and does his best to look uninterested. "When did he ever give a shit about me? When I was his loyal puppy dog? Even then, only until it stopped benefiting him."

"I get it, okay? What they did to you was...terrible. I never wanted that to happen. But you haven't been an angel, Murphy. Maybe if you were nice to people, they wouldn't be so ready to throw you to the dogs."

"I was nice to Bellamy, mostly anyway. Look what that got me. Niceness, loyalty, compassion...they only make you _weak_."

"I thought that too, after Finn..." she trails off, like she can't bear the rest of the sentence. "I was wrong. They don't make us weak. They make us human. And what's the point of living if we lose our humanity?"

 _Yet, what's the point of humanity if it only brings you pain?_   She turns to walk away, then pauses. "Give him a chance. You look like you need it as much as he does."

* * *

"Look, I appreciate the offer, but I'm really not interested."

"Aw, come on, we had some good times before. How about you just come talk with me for a bit? We don't have to do anything you don't want."

There's a girl trying to drape herself over Bellamy like he's freezing to death and she's a blanket. He's obviously uncomfortable, but too damn chivalrous to just tell her to leave him the fuck alone. When did he even get like that?

"Listen, curly," John interjects, drawing both of their gazes. "I think it's pretty clear that what he doesn't want is you. How about you go throw yourself at a willing participant?"  
Her face darkens as she looks at him like she's contemplating his death. _Well, curly, get in line._

"Back to being Bellamy's lap dog, Murphy?" she spits and Bellamy flinches beside her, though it's unclear if it's from the statement or the sheer hatred that laces her words. Once upon a time she wouldn't have dared say something like that to him without the fear of God striking her immediately after. Now she just looks pissed, backed up by the protection of their newfound society.

"No, I'm pretty sure you've got that covered," he answers, giving a pointed once over of how she's sitting halfway on Bellamy. "I'm afraid you might start pissing on him to mark your territory. I mean, I don't think that's B's sort of thing."

Bellamy clears his throat before she can reply, and gently maneuvers out from under her. Her face is red as a tomato, probably from a mix of anger and embarrassment, but she finally gets the hint and fucks off.

Bellamy stares at him for a second, like he's trying to decide on what to do next. "Thanks," is what he eventually settles on.

John waves a hand through the air. "Wasn't an invitation to start talking to me."

With a sigh, Bellamy leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "You're a real dick, you know?"

"Everyone around here is. I just don't try to hide it."

"I guess." After a pause, he adds, "How would you know about what I like in the bedroom?"

A crease forms between John's eyebrows at the random statement until it finally clicks and he smirks. "You tellin' me you're a hell of a lot kinkier than people think you are?"  
"Well, that depends on how kinky people think I am. Just how often do _people_ think about my sex life?"

John scoffs, because this feels a bit like flirting and that is completely Off Limits, even if he's sure that Bellamy doesn't mean it. "All the fucking time, judging by how often I hear about it."

"Well, I hope it's good things you hear." Bellamy smiles and leans back, exposing his throat like a dare. And what the fuck is going on? Hadn't John shut the possibility of a conversation down?

No, not really. He could've just let Bellamy deal with the curly girl on his own. He started this. Fuck, Clarke was right.

"Please, the kids here worship the ground you walk on. You could be the shittiest lay in the world and they'd still sing your praises." With that, he gets up and leaves. He spends the rest of the night trying to convince himself that he imagined the way Bellamy's face fell when he did.

* * *

John wakes up gasping, his memories trying to choke him in the night. He gets up and stumbles outside, heart hammering in his chest. He makes it a few feet to a nearby tree before he's emptying his stomach in the dirt.

"Bad dream?"

He freezes for a moment, then spits and turns around. Bellamy looks knowing and it makes him curl his fists into balls. "Bad dinner," he says sharply.

Bellamy reaches down for his arm and tugs him up. "I saw the look on your face a minute ago. I think you'd feel better if you talked about it."

John jerks his arm away and feels heat crawl up his neck. "Sure, let's talk about the feeling of that noose around my neck as everyone stood around shouting for my death, how I was begging you to believe me even as you kicked the crate out from under my feet, how I was banished from camp because the _actual killer_ couldn't live with her guilt and threw herself off a cliff. Let's talk about how I was caught by the grounders and the way their blades cut into my skin for three days before they infected me with a virus and sent me back, how you still thought I was weak because I didn't let myself fucking die in their village. Let's talk about walking across the goddamn _desert_ with a raving _lunatic_ who thought he was a messiah and how he fed someone to a _sea monster_ because they couldn't row and I could! Or, y'know, we can talk about how I came back here after all of that bullshit and people still can't stand the fucking sight of me. _Fuck you_."

When he tries to walk away, Bellamy grabs him again, face twisted with too many emotions. "I'm _sorry_ , Murphy. I'm sorry. For everything, but especially for me."

They stare at each other in silence and it feels too intimate, like exposing wounds to someone whose hands are covered in salt. Eventually, Bellamy's fingers slip off of him and John turns back around and walks away. Everything these days feels like a walking away, like leaving and being left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

It has been about three weeks since that moment of truth in the middle of the night. It didn't fix things, but it almost makes it feel like things _can_ be fixed. When that thought first occurs to John, he wonders how someone can possibly get past the things they've done to each other. How can they get past the things they've done, period? But then he realizes that everyone is doing it all around him all the time. That's the only option you've got. You either let your wounds heal or you bleed yourself to death.

"Don't think too hard, you might break something." Clarke leans against the metal wall of the dropship, arms crossed over her chest. When he ignores her, she tries a different approach. "What are you doing here?"

"Breaking something," he says bitterly.

Her mouth twitches before settling back into a straight line. "So, you and Bellamy seem to be getting along better."

"What do you want, Princess? We're not friends. In fact, I'd say we're pretty much the opposite."

She grunts and turns to him. "We _aren't_ friends. But I don't hate you, Murphy. You've changed. I've changed. We aren't the things that we've done."

"Are you saying that because you believe it or because you _want_ to believe it?"

It shuts her up for a while, because they both know the answer. He'd heard from Bellamy that she left for a few months after they freed the others from the mountain because she couldn't deal with the guilt of what they'd done. Nobody knows where she went. Maybe she'd come back for the same reason he did. Humans just weren't meant to be alone. He laughs humorlessly at that, earning a weird look from her.

"Are _you_ and Bellamy getting along better?" He doesn't know why he asks it. Probably just starved for conversation.

"I don't know. It's hard to tell with him. He's good at keeping his feelings hidden."

"What made you guys fall out? Never thought I'd see the day when the king and the princess didn't get along."

"I almost let his sister die," she says, and he knows she can't possibly be as apathetic as she sounds.

"But you didn't." Octavia was alive and well inside the camp. He'd been on the ass end of her withering stares enough to know.

"Just luck. That's all that kept her alive."

"Did you have a reason for it?" He notes, absently, that this is the most civil he and Clarke have ever been with each other.

"Yeah, but it wasn't good enough."

They stand there silently, staring at the graves that had been dug what felt like years ago. Eventually, they head back to Camp Jaha, whispers following them as they walk through the gate together.

* * *

"Murphy!"

John startles up from his makeshift bed just in time to see Bellamy pitch forward, falling and landing on his knees.

"The fuck? What the hell are you doing?"

Bellamy sways, eyes rimmed red and stinking of alcohol. John doesn't think he's seen someone this shitfaced since his mom had been alive and it makes his skin crawl. "I came to..." A crease forms between his eyebrows and he stares at his lap. "I can't remember."

"Well, go not remember somewhere else."

"I can't stay?" He looks hurt and something invisible and heavy settles over John's chest.

"No. You're drunk, and if you weren't, _neither_ of us would want you here."

Bellamy shifts, looking way too out of his fucking element and it's actually really unnerving. "You don't...want me?"

John is slightly confused about how Bellamy turned that sentence on its head and slightly pissed that he just _expects_ everyone to fall at his feet when he walks through a door. Mostly, John's pissed at himself because he sometimes still thinks about what could've been between them, in a different time, a different life. Friends, best friends, maybe more. But there's no use dwelling on it. He's stuck with this life and nothing can change that. "You need to go."

Bellamy nods and tries to get up, but ends up back on the ground. He looks pitiful, completely other than how he usually presents himself as he parades around camp. The only way he's leaving at this point is if he's dragged from the tent, and John doesn't need a trigger happy asshole seeing him pulling a limp body around at night. He huffs and lies down facing the corner, pulling his blanket over his shoulders. "Fine. Do whatever the hell you want."

He hears a shuffling before Bellamy drops onto his stomach beside him. When he feels an arm slip around his waist, he stiffens. It's a testament to how fucked he is that he doesn't push the hand away, instead closing his eyes and falling asleep.

* * *

He comes to the next morning warmer than usual, then realizes that there is a person completely plastered against his back. It feels nice, so he lies there in drowsy morning silence.

Bellamy wakes not long after, judging by the way John no longer feels breath against the back of his neck. He keeps his own breathing even, hoping to pass off as sleeping. Instead of immediately leaving like what he expected, Bellamy's grip tightens around him. After a few seconds, Bellamy does pull away, and the chill that assaults John's back makes him shiver involuntarily.

He listens to footsteps quietly make their way from him and he wonders about the way Bellamy seemed reluctant to get up. Maybe he’s lonelier than he lets on. John pulls the blanket over his head and tries to go back to sleep. A few minutes later, there's a shuffling outside his tent, then inside, and a slight weight is being laid over him. He waits until Bellamy retreats again to open his eyes. He's been given an extra blanket.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes John goes to the dropship to set his thoughts in order without the noise or the looks or the presence of everyone else. You'd think it would be the last place he'd want to be, but the reality is that everywhere he goes is tainted with blood and bad memories, so why be picky? He never did get back to sleep that morning after Bellamy spent the night, but he had thought about it. He couldn't tell if Bellamy actually cared about him at all or just had some weird compulsion to gain his forgiveness. Bell didn't seem the type to need forgiveness from anyone but himself though. It was a confusing situation, made worse by the fact that Bellamy did his best to avoid and ignore him for the next week.

So, now John is here, staring at graves again, wishing he knew what the fuck was going on.

Just as he pushes off of the dropship to walk away, pain explodes in his shoulder. He looks at the arrow jutting out from it in shock before his brain kick-starts and he ducks into the ship, climbing the ladder and closing the metal door behind him, then barring it up with the nearest piece of metal.

His shoulder is burning and he can't remember if he's supposed to take the arrow completely out or not. He settles on grabbing it with both hands and breaking it in half so it doesn't stick out as much, gritting his teeth at the pain. He knows he can't stay here long. He has no food, only a canteen of water he'd brought for the trip. In all reality, he'll probably die here without the help of ungodly luck.

Settling down against the wall, he thinks about his life choices. Seems like he's going to die alone after all.

* * *

"Murphy? Murphy! Hey, you're gonna be okay. Come on, we're gonna get you fixed up. Just stay with me."

 _Bellamy?_ John tries to say the name, but it sticks in his mouth. He feels weak, dizzy, and cold and his head and shoulder are throbbing. He gets the general impression that he's being picked up and carried but his eyelids feel too heavy to stay open. Everything goes black again.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, there's a light glaring at his face and he shuts them closed again. He doesn't feel as bad as he did before, but he certainly doesn't feel great.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

It takes him a second to place the voice. Abby Griffin. "Was I dead?" His throat feels scratchy and he coughs right after he speaks.

"You almost were. It's a good thing Mr. Blake found you when he did." A hand slips under his head and he feels something at his lips. He tries to drink it all, but it's pulled away from him. "You have to pace yourself for now. When you feel up to it, we'll get you some food. You should rest."

John doesn't have to be told twice.

* * *

Bellamy Blake may be the most confusing person John Murphy has ever met. Three days in Griffin's care after Bellamy had carried him to camp and yet he hasn't seen him once.

On the first day he's out, he heads straight for Bellamy's tent because he's honestly tired of the emotional whiplash.

Just as he goes to enter, Blake himself steps out, running right into him. He hisses in pain and Bellamy's face quickly changes from shock to concern. His hands hover a few inches away from John's shoulder, like he wants to do something but isn't sure what. John steps by him into the tent and he follows, brows knit together.

"What are you doing?"

"What is your malfunction, Blake? You sleep in my tent and leave me an extra blanket, then avoid me for a week. You carry me all the way back to camp, then don't even come to check if I lived. What game are you playing?"

Bellamy is quiet for awhile, before he finally says, "You know, most people say thank you when someone saves their life."

John huffs and runs a hand over his face. "Can't you just answer?"

"I didn't want to know, okay? How bad off you were, knowing it was my fault."

John's head is starting to hurt again. "How was any of this your fault?"

"You said it yourself. I was avoiding you. And because of that, I didn't notice you were gone until it was almost too late. I should've known. I should've gotten there sooner."

"Wow, I knew you had a hero complex, but I didn't realize it went this deep."

Bellamy makes a frustrated noise, perfectly summing up all of their interactions. "If it was someone else, Octavia, Fox, even Clarke, I would've noticed. But I didn't with you, because I was purposefully trying _not_ to notice you. So this isn't about needing to be the hero. It's about me being an ass and you nearly dying because of it."

"Well, at least we've got a pattern going on," he replies with a smirk.

"How can you be joking about this right now?"

With a shrug, he lets it fall. "Should I cry instead?" He shakes his head and walks to the entryway of the tent. "Thanks. For saving my life."

Bellamy gives a weak laugh. "I would say it was my pleasure, but if I'm being honest, carrying a half dead you through the forest isn't a pastime of mine."

With that, John ducks out into the chilly evening air.

* * *

On the fifth night that they eat dinner together, albeit quietly, John is forced to admit that something has changed between them. They're not like they were when they first landed on Earth, but close, somehow with the potential to be better. He thinks about Clarke's comment on how he and she have changed and then considers Bellamy and the age old question (according to Jaha), 'Do people change or become who they were always meant to be?'

"Why do you always look so angry?"

John scowls harder and shoves a bite of food in his mouth. "Because I am."

Bellamy studies him for a minute before responding with a dismissive hum. It's annoying, but not in the same way he finds other people annoying.

"Do you think people ever really change?"

"I dunno, Murph. I don't think some people ever do."

"Think they could if they wanted to?"

Bellamy sets his plate down, a small frown tugging at his lips. "I think no matter how hard a person tries, some things stay the same. You can't teach a blind man to see, no matter how much either of you want it."

"Is it fair to bring physical traits into this?" On some subconscious level, John knows that what they're doing, breaking the ritual silence of their dinner, will likely open the flood gate for future dinner conversation. But that's what friends do, right? Somewhere along the line, he had begrudgingly befriended Bellamy again.

"You looking to start a philosophy class?"

He shakes his head and scoffs. "Too heady for you?"

"Something like that."

"Last time you said that to me, I ended up banging rocks together in the forest."

Bellamy laughs and multiple heads turn his way. Understandable, really. "Well, we've come a long way since then, haven't we?"

With a sidelong glance, John says, "Something like that."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you catch any mistakes in here! Sometimes I miss them.

When Dr. Griffin and Kane announce that everyone is going to be staying in the Ark for the winter, John makes sure he's one of the first ones there. Everybody is going to be sharing rooms with at least a handful of other people since there's not enough space to fit them all and nobody seems very pleased with it. But that's why he got here early. He would stake his claim on a room and hope everybody else hated him too much to want to join. With any luck, he'd weed out his roommates to at least a few people who could stand living in close quarters with him. That, of course, went out the window when he was greeted by a woman at the door who asked for his name and gave him his room designation. They had even put numbers on all of the doors for convenience. Wonderful.

"Can I ask who I'm staying with?"

The lady looks down at her notes and then back to him. "Bellamy Blake, Octavia Blake and Monty Green. Is there a problem?"

He bites his cheek and shakes his head once before heading inside. They must've thought through who would be staying together, considering he was paired with three people on his 'probably won't kill me in my sleep' list (and it's a short list).

When he gets to the room, it's thankfully empty, but there's only two beds. Sighing, he dumps his bags on the floor (ones he'd taken from the lighthouse) and starts to lay his blankets out. There's two storage areas in the room as well and he sighs again and stuffs his bags into the nearest one.

About half an hour later, Monty shows up, nods in his direction, and moves to the bottom bunk bed. They don't talk, which is fine by him, and Bellamy shows up after another hour. Monty nods at him too, and he returns it politely before joining John on the left side of the room. He drops his blankets on the floor and John is surprised when the only other things he has is a few changes of clothes. "That's all you got?"

"What else would I have?" he asks, straightening his blankets haphazardly before sinking down onto them and removing his shoes. It's then that he notices there's a book in John's lap and he leans over and picks it up, turning it around in his hands. "Where'd you get this?"

"Lighthouse."

He nods and reads the back cover before returning it. "What was it like there?"

"A lot better than this heap of junk."

"Why'd you come back then?"

John slides the book under his pillow, since the dim lighting in here coupled with his dyslexia is really not an optimal situation to read in. "I ask myself the same thing every day."

Bellamy stares at him like he just said something tragic. Before he can say something snappy, Octavia enters, looks around the room, and climbs up to her bunk without a word. At least she's stopped glaring whenever she sees him.

"If being at the lighthouse wasn't a bad experience, why don't you ever talk about it?"

"Don't see the point."

"You'd be satisfying my curiosity."

Bellamy sounds hopeful and John has to admit, at least inwardly, that it might be nice to talk to someone about the whole thing. He starts at the beginning, when they first trekked into the desert, and tries to ignore the interested and not so covert glances that Octavia and Monty are giving him. Bellamy interjects with comments or questions a few times, but mostly just listens. The story finishes sometime after lights out and they both have to feel around in the dark to get under their respective blankets.

"Goodnight," Bellamy says quietly.

* * *

Within a few days, it's clear that everyone in the room suffers from nightmares, but John's are the worst. The third time he wakes up heaving for breath and tries to get out into the fresh air, a hand pulls him back.

"Hey, you're okay."

When the hand grasping his shirt loosens, he considers making for the door again, but he feels the fingers slide across his back and to his arm and is momentarily distracted. It feels nice, to be touched in a way that isn't meant to hurt.

"Lie down," the voice says, and he belatedly realizes it's Bellamy. He does as he's told and lowers himself back onto the blankets. Bellamy's fingers are now wrapped around his wrist and it's anchoring somehow. "Take some deep breaths. You're safe here. Everything's fine."

He nods, not that it can be seen in the darkness. When his breathing has calmed down, Bellamy lets go of him and he turns onto his side. He feels like maybe he should say thanks, but that's never been his strong suit, and he never asked for help anyway. Instead, he just listens to Bellamy breathe until he falls back to sleep.

* * *

He's not sure how it happened, but he's part of a group now. Well, he's got some idea how it happened. Bellamy started joining him for meals, then Monty because he's on the outs with Jasper, followed by Miller, who is apparently Replacement Jasper, a girl named Harper who looks at Monty with stars in her eyes, Monroe, who is one of the few people who never actually hated him, and Octavia, who is always accompanied by Lincoln.

"How long do you think we'll be in the Ark?" Monroe asks. "I mean, we can't stay like this forever. It's too cramped."

"Until it's warm enough to make new shelters, I'd imagine," says Miller.

John looks at them in confusion. "Why would we go through the trouble of making more shelters here when we can easily fit everyone in the mountain? My guess is we'll be moved in there as soon as the bodies are out and the place has been explored and mapped by the chancellor and her lackeys."

The whole group stops eating to stare at him and he stares back until Harper finally manages to say, "They want us to go back to that place? After everything that happened?"

"Well, it's there. There's no reason not to make use of it."

"Except for the traumatic memories they may drudge up," Monty says.

John shrugs. "There's traumatic memories to be drudged up everywhere. Just down the hill from here, the princess killed her prince. Plenty of people died at the dropship and we all still stayed there."

Bellamy swallows and nods his head stiffly a few times. "It makes sense."

Harper looks terrified, which is a stark difference to Octavia next to her who looks completely unfazed. Maybe it's because she hadn't been locked up there, but it's probably just due to her pragmatic Grounder training. He's still mildly impressed that she got in with the Grounders, short as it may have been.

Before anyone has the chance to speak again, someone is tapping on his shoulder and he looks up to see Clarke standing behind him. Everyone else looks at her too, but she makes sure to keep her eyes on him. "Can I talk to you?"

He stands up and follows her a few yards away.

"Bellamy's birthday is in ten days. He could probably use a nice de-stress session, if you think you could plan something for it."

"You want me to throw Bellamy a birthday party?" he deadpans.

"Well, not a party, but do something nice for him. Maybe get some of the others to join in. I know he won't accept anything from me, but he deserves some happiness."

He nods, because he does still owe her a favor for not letting Bellamy kill him. Twice. But even as he does, he's not sure what exactly he's agreeing to. It's not like he really has experience in this whole friendship thing, if he could consider any of the delinquents his friends. He did have Mbege, once upon a time, but that didn't last very long. "Anything else, your majesty?"

Clarke smiles and shakes her head, but then catches his arm before he walks away. "I never thought I'd say this...but thanks."

He nods again and they both return to their tables. As soon as he's sitting down, multiple people try to speak to him at once and he waves a hand through the air to quiet them. "Personal stuff."

Octavia raises her eyebrows and leans back. "Since when do you have 'personal stuff' to discuss with Clarke?"

He pushes a stray piece of hair from his face and glances at her. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he says and starts eating his food again. He shouldn't be so satisfied about the mystified expressions everyone has on, but he is.

* * *

"Hey, Monty."

Monty startles and turns slowly, like he's not sure if it's really him being addressed. "Yeah?"

"How much do you know about birthdays?"

"Uh, they're the celebration each year of the day you were born? Usually you get together with some people you like and hang out?"

John glares. "Obviously. I mean Bellamy's birthday is coming up and I'm supposed to do something for it but I don't know what."

Monty's eyebrows climb up behind his bangs. "You want to do something for Bellamy's birthday?"

"Not really, but Clarke asked me and I owe her one." _Even if she was technically the one to get me blamed for Wells' death to begin with._ He didn't really hold that against her very much though. If he hadn't known he didn't do it, he'd have probably thought he killed Wells too.

Placing his fingers on his chin, Monty nods. "Let's brainstorm."

* * *

Brainstorming, it turns out, consists of them both suggesting mediocre ideas for twenty minutes before John throws himself back onto Monty's bed in aggravation. Monty huffs and leans over him to fix the blanket that's now pulled away from the corner.  
Their door opens, startling them both, and Bellamy pauses just outside the room. He gives them a questioning look as he enters, which they both ignore, and suddenly it's stiflingly quiet.

"Okay," John says, "I'm just gonna-" he gets up without finishing his sentence and walks out, but not before catching a glare from Monty for leaving him to deal with the awkwardness alone.

* * *

"The only thing we're gonna catch in these woods is a cold."

"Well, not if Miller would stop stepping on every damn stick."

"I have feet. They're bound to step on things. You shouldn't have invited me if you didn't want me here."

"I invited you because you're one of the few people I trust to hold a weapon around Murphy without using it on him."

"It's comforting to know how many people still want me dead."

"Is it raining?"

Everyone stops and studies the air around them.

"It's...snow."

They watch the smattering of snowflakes falling from the sky, the only noise the sound of their breathing.

"Should we go back?" Bellamy asks, and they all look at each other.

"It's barely snowing and we haven't even caught anything."

Miller nods at John's answer. "I think we still have some time."

* * *

As it turns out, they did _not_ have time. Within half an hour, the snowfall turned from a flurry to a near blizzard. Now they are sitting, cold and agitated, in a random cave, huddled into each other's sides.

"I knew we should've gone back," Bellamy grumbles.

John slings the bag off his back and digs through it, pulling out a small blanket, a lighter, and two provision packs. Bellamy and Miller just stare at him like he's suddenly turned into a unicorn.

"Why do you have that stuff?" Miller asks, reaching for blanket and trying to settle it around them. John pushes it away and stands, dropping the food into Bellamy's lap and making for the cave opening.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping us alive."

After some scavenging, he manages to find some dry wood and twigs and returns with an armful of it, dumping it on the ground. He stacks a few pieces together with numb fingers and lights it, then slides back under the blanket. Bellamy passes him some food and they stare at the flames while they eat.

"Why did you bring all this stuff?" Miller asks again. "Did you expect we'd need it?"

"I've been stuck in enough of these shitty situations to become properly paranoid."

Bellamy nods and retrieves his canteen of water, taking a sip and then offering it to the other boys. "Is it really paranoia if you're proven right?"

With a small chuckle, John stuffs his hands under his armpits. "Looking to join my philosophy class, Blake?"

"Don't count on it," Bellamy answers, smiling.

Miller just looks confused.

* * *

It isn't until the next morning that the snow stops falling long enough that they decide to leave. It's also around this time that John realizes that Bellamy spent his birthday in a frozen cave. He wonders if Bellamy even remembered his own birthday. Sighing, he tugs his jacket tighter around him and tries to ignore how wet and cold his feet are.  
When they finally make it back, Octavia is at the gate with Lincoln and Monroe, arguing with one of the guards there. She trails off when she sees them and rushes Bellamy when the gate is opened. He laughs and hugs her, hand pressed against the back of her head. Monroe gives them each a one armed hug and they start walking again, heading to the Ark.

When Bellamy sneezes, Octavia says he should rest and offers her bed, then gives him another quick hug and opens the door for him. Instead of following, John ducks his head in and calls Monty. "Got a minute?"

Monty nods and gets up, closing the door behind him once he's in the hall. He gives Miller's arm a squeeze and then turns his attention to the rest of the group. "Is this about the birthday thing? Are we doing it tonight now?"

"Where though?" Octavia asks. "We were supposed to set it all up in our room while Bell was hunting."

"Monroe?"

Monroe shakes her head. "My roommates wouldn't go for it."

They all look at each other, each realizing there's no way to set things up like they'd planned, before Octavia finally speaks. "Well, we can at least give him the presents? After he sleeps though. Murphy and Miller should too."

"Yeah," Monty agreed, "You can use my bed. I'll go stay with Harper."

With a slightly awkward chorus of goodbyes, they all part ways, and John slips back into his room. He pulls his shoes, pants, and jacket off and climbs onto Monty's bed, burrowing beneath the covers.

"Where'd Monty go?"

"Harper's. I might think there was something going on there if I believed for one second he actually liked girls."

There's a shuffling above him where he assumes Bellamy is situating himself. "Monty doesn't like girls?"

"Not enough to want to bang them."

Bellamy hums and after a few minutes, when John thinks he might have finally gone to sleep, he asks, "What about you?"

"Do I like girls?"

Another hummed response.

"Well enough."

Bellamy stays quiet after that, and John thinks about Emori in the desert. He doesn't really begrudge her for what she did. She's just surviving like everyone else. He hopes she's alright.

* * *

"Happy late birthday, big brother!" Octavia shouts, and John can't help the flutter of amusement at seeing Bellamy jerk awake, creases lining his face and eyes wide.

When he finally gets his bearings, he groans and collapses back onto the bed. "Thanks," he says, halfheartedly.

"Come on, sleepyhead. You have presents."

Bellamy turns his head to the side and eyes everyone that's been packed into the room, as if he didn't notice before. "Presents?"

Octavia pats him on the leg and he sits up, staring down at the small, sheet-covered heap in the middle of the room. "We didn't put names on anything, because this was a group effort. It was supposed to be better than this, but you weren't actually here on your birthday when everything was set up." She leans down and grabs the bundle of presents and her and Monty heft it up to the top bunk.

Bellamy looks at them all, clearly confused, then unties the sheet. He pulls each gift out one by one and inspects them: a ground-approved utility belt, two small bags of blended spices, one for tea, the other for food, a wind-chime, a handmade bar of soap, a book, and an especially old bottle of liqueur. He's beaming by the end of it, and John inwardly admits that it doesn't feel terrible to do something nice for someone else. 

After Bellamy climbs down and everyone has received some form of thanks via hug, back slap, and/or hair ruffling, a few people say their goodbyes and exit the over-crowded room. Even then, there's not enough space, so it's communally decided that they should all go get some lunch.

John stops Bellamy at the door, letting the group walk a few feet ahead of them. "It's none of my business who you're friends with, but I figured I'd let you know that this was Clarke's idea." _There. Favor repaid._

His expression goes from contented relaxation to grim dissatisfaction at the information. "How nice of her."

John holds up his hands and begins to walk backward into the hall. "Just figured you should know."

"She was going to let Octavia die."

"The things we do on the ground, huh?"

He doesn't respond to that, and they let the subject drop.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not sure how much Monty/Miller I want to include in this story. What do you guys think?

John's on a routine hunting trip with Bellamy and Monroe, who has gotten surprisingly good at shooting arrows, when the last person he expects to see comes stumbling into their path.

They all freeze, staring at each other wide-eyed. It's clear that the girl standing in front of them isn't a Grounder and she's certainly not an Arker, so he can only imagine what Bell and Roe are thinking.

"What the hell?" he manages to choke out, wondering if he accidentally ate something that causes hallucinations because this _cannot_ be happening.

Bellamy raises his gun. "Who are you?"

Her eyes flick from him to the weapon, then up to Bellamy's face. "My name is Emori."

Reaching to the side, John puts his hand on the gun and forces it down. Emori looks relieved, and takes a tentative step forward, gaze back on him. "I hope you know that what I did was nothing personal."

"Oh, yeah, I'm well aware you probably steal from anyone who wanders into your land. Tell me, do you always wait for them to offer you water and share their life story before you punch them in the face?"

She's lost weight, she's dirty, and her hair looks worse than his on his worst days, but then she smirks, and _that's_ the girl from the desert that he remembers, the same girl who managed to hold a conversation with him for hours without either of them getting pissed off.  "I'm sorry. Did you find what you were looking for?"

He rolls his eyes. "Oh yeah, everything in my wildest dreams."

A hand flies up, fingers splayed in the presumably universal sign for 'stop.' It's Bellamy, and he's looking between them like someone's sprouted an extra limb. "What is going on?"

"I met her in the desert," John says, then remembers what the first thing he said to her should've been. "Why are you here?"

"I saw you, going back the way you came. We are low on supplies, and your group came very prepared on your journey, so I followed you. I ended up losing you after falling asleep one night. You were not nearby when I woke."

John rubs a hand over his face. "So you've just been roaming the woods by yourself this whole time? And the Grounders didn't attack you?"

"They probably thought she was one of us," Bellamy says. "They may have left us up at the mountain, but they kept the truce."

"Maybe we should go back to camp?" Monroe suggests, reasserting her nearly forgotten presence.

"Bring _her_ to camp, a stranger from the desert who assaulted Murphy, stole from Jaha's group, and just admitted to following Murphy back in the hopes of stealing _more_ from us?"

Monroe bites her lip and John shrugs out of jacket, removes his sweater, then pulls the jacket back on. He wraps the sweater around itself a few times, then steps up to Emori. "Blindfold," he explains, and she doesn't look happy about it, but she also doesn't have much choice. She can wander the woods until she freezes to death or go back with them. She turns and he ties the sleeves at the back of her head, tightly, but she doesn't complain. Grabbing her arm, he gently spins her back around and leads the way to camp.

* * *

"She's going to have to be escorted back to her home the same way she was escorted here."

"Who's going to take her? We can't expect anyone to volunteer to bring her in this weather."

"I will go, Chancellor."

"You'd need a team. We don't know how dangerous the situation could turn out to be."

"What do you suggest? We can't just let her wander around camp and we can't send her back into that forest. She'll die."

"Why should we care if she dies? She hasn't exactly been hospitable to us."

"She's just a girl trying to survive on the ground, just like our kids were when they got down here."

"Enough. We'll keep her in holding until the weather warms back up and a group can be assembled for her return."

John pushes off of the wall he's been leaning against as the door to the council room is opened, Bellamy to his left and Emori, still blindfolded, to his right. They receive multiple raised eyebrows as a group of adults step out. Dr. Griffin looks vaguely amused. "Any closer to the door and you might've been hit. I suppose I don't have to repeat myself?"

"I think we heard you all pretty clearly. You would figure the room with the secret meetings would be able to block out more noise."

Ignoring the comment, Dr. Griffin nods at a female guard. "Take her to holding and get her something to eat and a blanket."

The guard nods and grabs Emori by the upper arm, ushering her away. John follows and Bellamy reaches for him. "Where are you going?"

He gives a pointed look at Emori's retreating figure. "Thought that was pretty obvious."

"Why?"

"You've been locked up here before. You should know there's not much in the way of conversation."

"You're just going to have a nice chat with her? She's dangerous, Murphy."

He snorts. "We're all dangerous," he says and starts walking again. Bellamy follows and they make it to Emori just as she's getting her meal. One of her wrists, the one on the bad arm, is chained to the floor. The guard apparently saw it fit to let her keep it covered. He sits against the wall across from her and Bellamy frowns, but does the same, eyeing her like a ticking time bomb.

They watch as she scarfs the food down, obviously starving. When she finishes, she pushes the tray away and finally focuses on them. "Your people have accepted you back after your crimes."

"I don't suppose you've got in with _your_ people since I last saw you." It's not a question, because he knows she wouldn't have.

"No," she answers. She doesn't sound sad about it and it makes him like her a bit more.

"Why don't you leave the desert then?"

Her head tips to the side like he's said something funny. "And live here? Freeze here?"

"It's not always cold."

"You sound as if you're inviting me to stay, John." He can't read her expression. "You know I can't."

Does he want her to stay? He thinks it wouldn't be so bad. They seem to understand each other, better than anyone else understands them anyway. He changes the subject. "Who were those guys you were with before?"

"Outcasts. We may not be accepted by our people, but we form groups of our own." Her chain raises a fraction with the words, not prideful, but defiant. For the first time, he notices how tired she looks and decides he should let her sleep. When he stands, Bellamy does too. John had almost forgotten him there, with how quiet he was.

The boys leave, and nobody offers a goodbye.

* * *

He develops a sort of pattern after that, where he visits Emori each night after he's eaten. They talk about their cultures and their past mostly. After he finds out that she can barely read, he decides to help. He starts bringing books and it's a bit ironic that someone with a learning disability is the person teaching her. Somehow it seems right though. They fit.

John is hard pressed to feel sympathy for someone else, but he has to admit that he does when it comes to her. She's been locked in a room for two weeks now. Due to her good behavior, she's allowed to have things of her own in there, things that he brings to her, but he knows it's not enough. People aren't meant to live like this. She doesn't say anything about it though. He thinks that's admirable; she doesn't pity herself, doesn't complain about the hands life deals her. Even talking about the fucked up shit that's happened in her past, she's rational. Not repressing her emotions, but understanding that what's done is done and there's no point in wallowing in it.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks her on one of the days that they aren't talking much.

"I'm thinking your hair is getting quite long."

It startles a laugh out of him, because that's the last thing he expected her to say. "Yeah, I should probably get it cut, but it's hard to trust people near my head holding sharp objects."

"You trust Bellamy."

The way she says it makes it sound like there's a double meaning there, but he can't figure out what. "I guess," he allows.

"What's he like?"

His forehead crinkles at the question. "Since when do you want to talk about Bellamy?"

"You don't talk about him often, but it's clear that you two are close. Strange, considering your history."

"My history with him or people in general?"

She smirks. "Both."

"He's stubborn. Sort of an asshole sometimes. Has a hero complex a mile wide. Doesn't take orders well."

Emori is still looking at him, expectantly. "Doesn't he have any good qualities?"

"Nope." He turns his head to stare at the wall and she chuckles.

"How would you describe me then?"

"Stubborn. Sort of an asshole sometimes-" He stops when she knocks her shoulder into his and they're both grinning.

* * *

"Does he know you'd give him your liver if he asked?"

Monty jumps slightly and spins around to meet John's quirked eyebrow. "What?"

"Miller. You two've become really close, but I can't help but think you want to get closer."

Monty shifts his weight awkwardly. "We're just friends."

"Oh, no doubt about that, but that has nothing to do with what I said, does it?"

"How about you and Bellamy huh?"

Just as he's about to scoff and correct the assumption, another voice cuts into the conversation.

"What about Murphy and me?"

Monty ignores Bellamy and gives him a challenging stare. Really, the boy is more ballsy than he’s given credit for. It's probably the puppy eyes that do it. When John just looks unruffled and doesn't speak, Monty pushes a harsh breath from his nose and walks away from them.

"What was that about?" Bellamy asks.

"I just pointed out how much time he's been spending with Miller lately."

In some unspoken agreement, they find themselves both wandering aimlessly through camp. "Well yeah, but they're friends, Murph."

John's eyebrows move toward his hairline. "Don't think Monty just wants to be friends. You don't get that defensive about something unless there's some truth behind it."

"I'm sure it's nothing." Bellamy looks supremely uncomfortable, though he has no idea why.

"If you say so, B."

"So, I was thinking I could come with you to visit that girl today."

Ah, so that's it. "You know her name. And why?"

"Emori," Bellamy corrects himself. "Why not?"

"Because you've never wanted to before?"

"I'm curious as to the kind of person who could get you to like them so quickly."

He ignores the weirdness of Bellamy wanting to go see her-because what's the worst that could happen?-and shrugs. "Whatever."

  
* * *

It's not blatant, but he can see that Emori is slightly tense with Bellamy around. She's not hostile, and she doesn't act much different than when they're alone, but she's stiffer and takes more time responding to him, as if she's thinking about what to say.

"So why are you outcasted from your people?" Bellamy asks, looking more at ease than John would have expected considering how awkward he seemed before asking to come here.

"I was a stain on their bloodline."

"That's bullshit." He doesn't spit the words out, but it's a near thing.

"It is what it is." She tips her head back slightly, studying him. "Why does it bother you so much?"

"My sister was outcast for reasons she couldn't control either." A muscle twitched in his jaw. Talking about Octavia was always a touchy subject for him. It must be nice, having a sibling. Or maybe the Blakes just made it seem like it would be nice. It was clear to anyone with eyes how much they loved each other.

John lies down on the floor, slipping his arms behind his head and watching the ceiling. The closest he's seen to non-related siblings are Jasper and Monty, who actually seem to be talking to each other these days. He had learned awhile back that Jasper was angry at Bellamy, Clarke, and Monty for radiating the mountain, killing his girlfriend. Well, that's not right, it wasn't just a matter of anger. John knew anger well, but one thing he knew even better was betrayal. The looks he'd seen Jasper giving Monty were just that: betrayed.

John blinks a few times as someone kicks his foot. "What?"

"I called your name three times. What are you zoning out about?"

"Monty and Jasper."

"What, you think they're gonna hook up now too?"

He sits up with an agitated grunt and scowls at Bellamy. "Well, who am I to infringe on their fun? Maybe they can even get Miller to jump in."

Bellamy rolls his eyes, lips twitching into a small smile. "Why don't you join them and make it an even four?"

"Sharing water in the desert is one thing, but sharing people is a little much." Emori smiles at that, even though Bellamy doesn't appreciate his humor as much.

"We should get going," he says. "It'll be lights out soon."

When they stand, Emori grabs his shirt sleeve. "Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

He nods and she waits for Bellamy to step out of the door before lowering her voice and saying, "He likes you."

 _What the fuck?_ "What the fuck?"

"I'm just letting you know, because it doesn't seem like you do."

"Okay, thanks for that bit of useless information," he answers, all snark but no bite. "Goodnight, Emori."

"Goodnight, John."

When he walks out of the room, Bellamy is waiting a short way down the corridor, respectfully out of hearing distance, and gives him a look that says, _I'm not going to ask, but I'd really like to know_. John just shakes his head, lips closed. He's learned by now to ignore at least half of the shit Emori says.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** Some torture in this chapter! I'm not sure what classifies as 'graphic' enough for the 'graphic depictions of violence' tag, so I'm telling y'all here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and any waits on future chapters. Been a bit down and unmotivated lately. I haven't even been reading any books. :/ 
> 
> And I usually read the chapters over one last time and do a bit of editing when I decide to post it, but I'm on mobile and have a terrible cough and just don't feel up to it. Hopefully there's no mistakes.

Things had been going relatively well in John's life. That right there should have been an indicator that something terrible was going to happen. Of course, he didn't think the terrible thing would be so uneventful as slipping on ice and careening off a small cliff.

He stares down at his lap and distantly wonders just what he's fucked up this time. He surely banged himself up on the way down, but all his body seems able to recognize is the pounding of blood in his ears. Someone shouts something from above him and he jerks his head up, only for his vision to spin and blur. He blinks rapidly and tries to keep it as still as he can. Whoever is talking is seemingly unaware of the fact that only bits and pieces of their sentences are making it to John's brain. He tries to stand, but pain sears up his leg from his ankle and he falls back down. Everything is starting to go numb where it touches the snow and he shivers. He needs to get up and go back to camp and crawl under a blanket. Maybe a few of them. It sounds like a good plan, but his limbs don't seem to be much under his control anymore. Maybe he just needs to rest here for awhile.

* * *

Time has apparently slipped out of his grasp, because he isn't sure if he's been sitting in this spot for minutes or hours. A sound to his left makes him glance over, expecting to see someone he knows or maybe a stray animal. But that would mean a pause in John's endless supply of bad luck. The figure making it's way towards him is a Grounder, scruffy clothes, face mask, and all. If he had the energy to groan and flash the sky a middle finger, he would.

When the Grounder closes in on him, they grab a handful of his hair and pull his head back, which sends a pang down his neck. After a few seconds of examining, they grunt and move their grip to his shirt, hauling him onto his feet. A shout flies from his mouth as he's forced to put weight on his bad ankle and he buckles, falling onto his shins. He curses and is soon pulled back up, completely off of the ground. For a moment, he feels like he's back in the dropship, hurtling toward Earth, but he's really just being lifted into the air by a disgruntled Grounder. They sling him over their shoulder and he groans as it digs into his pelvis. It would've been better if they had just killed him where he sat. Wherever they're taking him, it's surely not to Wonderland and probably not back to camp.

* * *

Once they've arrived to wherever it is they are, because all Grounder villages look pretty much the same to him, a small spark of hope that maybe things will be okay takes root in his chest. He's brought into a hut and set down on a bed of straw and after some indistinguishable gibberish, a woman begins tearing pieces of cloth to wrap around his ankle and foot. It hurts like hell, but hands on his leg keep him from squirming too much. After it's done, he half expects Clarke to come traipsing in with her mother close behind, but he is very sadly mistaken. Figures. Hope has never actually done shit to help him.

After who knows how long of lying on the uncomfortable bed, he's roughly pulled to his feet and his head has cleared enough to remind him not to put pressure on his injured foot. He's virtually dragged back outside and dread begins to pool in the pit of his stomach. A few feet away is a long stake jutting up from the ground, surrounded by wooden logs. He thinks about struggling, but knows it'll be completely useless. There's no way he's outrunning an entire village with a bummed ankle and bouts of dizziness.

His jacket is ripped off of him rather unceremoniously and his shoulder gets twisted in the process. His shirt comes off next; someone steps up in front of him with their knife at hand and cuts his shirt from his neckline all the way down, not caring about nicking his skin while they're at it. From behind, he can feel the shirt tugged down off his arms and he realizes he should be freezing at this point, probably is, but doesn't really care. He spits at the guy in front of him and is quickly jerked to the side and pressed against the stake. They pull his hands around the stake and bind them, then move on to his legs. He would kick them if he thought he wouldn't crumble to the ground trying.

When they finally move away, he lifts his chin and stares ahead blankly. He knows what's coming. He knows he's going to scream eventually. But he won't give them the pleasure of watching him fall apart before a blade touches him. He closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and hopes he bleeds out quickly.

The first cut comes and his eyes well with unwelcome tears. The second is more drawn out, a slow slice across his already scarred abdomen. The third is quick, but deeper, and he feels the blood roll down his stomach. The fourth is up his left arm and he can't keep silent anymore. Every time the metal hits his skin, his muscles tense and his diaphragm pushes out a scream. He screams until his throat feels raw and he can't help but strain against his bindings. His hands become slippery from blood as they begin to cut into his wrists, but he can't think about that right now. Already, his left leg is getting tired from holding him up.

He gets so wrapped up in the burning lacerations across his skin that it takes him a moment to recognize when he's finally stopped getting new ones.

He opens his eyes and blinks until they adjust to the glaring whiteness of the snow-covered village. Bellamy's standing about a hundred feet away, gun pointed at the nearest armed Grounder. John can't help the relief that floods his system at the sight. "I've got snipers surrounding your village and they will not hesitate to put a bullet in each and every one of you."

The Grounders part down the middle to reveal what John assumes is their leader. "I do not doubt it. Your people have done so before."

"When one of your people does something terrible, does everyone shoulder the blame? I don't want to hurt any of you. We have been at peace for months. Just give back who you took."

"He is a criminal. This is what he deserves. He shall receive the death that his friend did not."

"He's not the one that killed your people. This isn't his crime to pay for. The man you want vengeance on is already dead. Nobody wants to see any more blood spilled. There are children in this village. Would you sentence them to death as well just to kill a boy over something he didn't do? He tried to stop the shooting. He tried to protect your people."

"Not hard enough," the Grounder grits out. "And how do I know you will not slaughter us even if we give you the boy?"

"You have my word," Bellamy says, lowering his gun a few inches. "We only want to protect our people."

"Your word means nothing to me."

"Right now, it's all you have."

The Grounder speaks to his people, but keeps his eyes on Bellamy. There's a shuffling behind John and his bindings are cut, causing him to pitch forward. He's caught by a sturdy arm, but the pressure against his wounds makes him groan. He's half-marched, half-dragged to Bellamy, who slips an arm around him and begins to back up slowly. When they're a safe enough distance away that they don't have to worry about suddenly being tackled to the ground, Bellamy releases his gun and it tugs at the strap around his shoulder. After some awkward maneuvering, he manages to get his jacket off and helps John into it, then uses both arms to support him. The jacket isn't exactly comfortable when it chafes against his wounds, but it's better than freezing to death.

"I can't believe that worked," Bellamy says, backing them up until they're a few yards into the forest and then turning them around.

"Yeah, I was wondering where we suddenly got an influx of sniper rifles and people who know how to use them."

Bellamy laughs humorlessly. "You have the shittiest luck."

"Glad-" John coughs, causing their steps to falter. "Glad someone else finally noticed."

* * *

When they get to the ravine where John had been picked up by a Grounder, both Clarke and her mother are there. Clarke rushes forward to ease Bellamy's strain and Dr. Griffin follows with a small container of supplies. She grimaces at the sight of him, and then more when she opens his jacket. She makes quick work of dressing the wounds and gives him some drink that tastes like grass and chemicals, then says that anything else, including his ankle, will have to be treated at camp. His fists clench involuntarily at the thought of having to walk further and Clarke hisses in pain. He loosens his fingers and grabs onto her jacket and Bellamy's shirt instead.

They move along at a stunted pace for awhile until Clarke pulls them to a stop with a frown. "He's going to die before we even get him back to camp at this rate."

"You'd think the daughter of a doctor would have better bedside manners," John comments, but she ignores him. Typical.

"Why don't you just pick him up? We'll be able to move quicker that way."

"What about his wounds?" Bellamy asks.

"Yes, you'll definitely cause further damage if you put him over your shoulder. But what about just holding him in front? Your arms should be strong enough, judging by the size of them."

"Don't worry," John says, "This conversation isn't emasculating at all."

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Murphy. We're busy trying to save your life." He nods to Clarke, who takes most of his weight while Bellamy squats and carefully puts his arms behind John's knees and back. The initial lift causes no small amount of pain, but after a few moments, he concedes that it's much better than trying to walk on his own two feet. "Would any of you mind knocking me out before we get there? I don't want to be awake for this level of humiliation."

As they begin walking again, Clarke says, "I don't think it's wise to say something like that unless you're ready for someone to take you up on the offer."

He forgoes answering and lets his head loll to the side, against Bellamy's shoulder. He supposes it's not the worst pillow he's ever had to use.

Dr. Griffin reaches her hand out and places it on Bellamy's arm. "I'm going to go ahead and get things ready before you guys get there, okay? Clarke, you stay with them in case anything happens."

They both nod at her and she's soon vanished into the woods in front of them. Her efficiency would be admirable, if John were privy to feeling such things as admiration anymore.

A reasonable pace is set and the rhythm coupled with the relative silence is comforting enough that he shuts his eyes and relaxes for a while. He wakes to someone saying his name and belatedly realizes he must have dozed off.

"Did you bring all the books from the lighthouse?" Bellamy asks, and it's a weird enough question to capture his attention.

"No, there were too many. Why?"

"Tell me about one of the ones you left behind then."

Maybe it's just his own head's fuzziness, but this conversation seems really strange. "Why?"

"Because I asked. May as well have something to think about on the way back other than how heavy you are."

John attempts a snort, but it comes out as more of a delicate sounding sniff.

"Which of the ones you left was your favorite?"

After some consideration, he says, "Peter Pan."

"What's that about?"

"A boy who never grows up."

Bellamy's laughter is silent, but John can feel the vibrations of his chest. "Figures that would be the one you liked."

"It was sad." The statement surprises Bellamy, but it surprises himself more. It's the truth - he _had_ found it sad - but he's not sure why he felt the need to share.

"Why's that?"

"He doesn't have a family. Whenever he dreams, he has nightmares. He forgets things. People. Stuff he's done. I think he has to. The memories only remind him of what's gone." Even though he's talking about a book, he somehow feels like he's just shared something personal.

"To die will be an awfully big adventure," Clarke murmurs. John's tempted to lift his head and look at her, but it feels like too much of a chore. "Wells gave me a journal as a birthday present once. I used to write all of my favorite quotes in it. When my father died, I destroyed it." Her voice breaks on the word _destroyed_.

"You could start a new one," Bellamy suggests.

"I really couldn't," she says, and John can imagine the numb look on her face as she does. When he was a kid, he never understood how someone could look one way and feel another. Now he's practiced at it enough to know that the blankest demeanor could be hiding tidal waves of emotion.

They fall back into silence, but this time, he doesn't fall asleep. Instead, he thinks about his dad, wonders what expression he'd been wearing before he'd died. Wonders what expression he'd be wearing if he could see his son now. After a few minutes, John shoves the thoughts back into the recesses of his mind. That's where they belong. These days, all your attention has to be focused on the living. There's just no time for the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (forewarning: future chapters might contain some clexa. i'm really liking the depth of lexa's character this season.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter seems a bit slow, but it sets up for some future plot lines and also gave me the excuse to write more Murphy/Monty scenes which I needed, thank you.
> 
> I didn't reread this at all because I'm tired and just wanted to publish it already, so I'm v sorry if there's mistakes.

"You look pretty terrible."

John glares at Monty, but it doesn't seem to have much effect anymore. That's a new _thing_ apparently. With the recent lack of attempts at maiming or killing, everyone who actually spends time with him have basically written him off as a low-risk threat. More bark than bite. He might have to do something reckless though, if even Monty won't take him seriously.

"If you keep scowling like that, you're liable to give yourself a permanent unibrow."

John scoffs and eyes the bowl of leaves in Monty's hand. "Is there some reason you've come to eat your depressing looking salad in here?"

Monty lets out a long sigh and places the bowl on the table, then adds a few drops of something liquid. "I've been helping in the gardens, cultivating what we managed to bring down and testing the uses of the unknown flora in this area."

"You didn't steal another plant, did you?"

"The chancellor has me focused on possible medicinal effects of the new flora," he carries on, as if he wasn't interrupted, pulling a rounded metal item from his pocket and grinding it into the leaves. "I've got two in here; one which works as a light anesthetic, another which promotes quicker healing. I've tested the two together on minor injuries and there's been no adverse reaction, so you shouldn't have a problem with them. You might have an allergic reaction though, so I'm going to apply a small amount on your wrist and let it sit for an hour before I put any of it on your wounds."

John watches as he finishes pulverizing the leaves and dips two fingers into it. He grabs John's hand and wipes the mulched plant on the inside of his wrist, moving his fingers over the skin there few times. When he lets go, John frowns, because the circular motion had felt nice, then more, as he processes that thought.

"Aw, don't look so sad," Monty says, in a tone that so cheerful as to be obviously teasing, "I'll be back in an hour."

John's tempted to tell him not to come back at all, just because, but the idea of the anesthetic is too good to pass up. Some of the cuts he has required stitching (he’s not sure if it hurt more because the doctor doing it wasn't very skilled or because he just didn't like his patient) and when he moves certain ways, he feels a painful, pulling sensation. "Joy," he says, completely monotone, then raises an eyebrow as he catches sight of Bellamy standing just inside the room.

When Monty turns, his faked joy turns into something more genuine at the sight of new company. "Hey. Raven was looking for you earlier."

Bellamy steps further into the room. "I'll go find her in a few minutes. Do you know what she wanted?"

Monty shakes his head, apologizes, and exits the room with a last warning to John about making sure he calls for someone if he starts reacting to the poultice.

“How are you feeling?” Bellamy asks, moving to the edge of the bed.

“Like I fell off a cliff and was tortured by Grounders?” And here he was thinking it’d’ve been obvious.

“Right. Well, I came with some news. Apparently, Mount Weather is off limits. If we try to move there, we’ll be declaring war on the Grounders. Lincoln says we can take trips up there to get supplies, but not too often.”

“Great, so we’re stuck in this shitty tin can until it gets warm enough to start building.” John bites back a groan. For once, he'd like something in his life to go smoothly. “Why're you telling me, anyway?”

Bellamy looks one part confused, two parts indignant. “Why wouldn't I? Everyone else will find out soon enough. You're the one who’s bedridden.”

“Don't remind me. Was that all?”

“If you had let me finish, I was going to say that we’re meeting with the coalition to try to get reign over the mountain. Clarke didn't want to go, but Kane convinced her to. He said Lexa is more likely to listen to her.” For once, he doesn't look bitter while talking about Clarke. He’s not exactly making heart eyes like he might’ve done before, but John supposes it’s still a step in the right direction.

“When’s the meeting?”

“In two days. But we’re leaving now. Abby has to go, but she said you should be fine with Jackson here.”

“Sure, what could _possibly_ go wrong?”

Bellamy grins at the sarcasm - probably finding great joy in John’s bad luck when it’s not an inconvenience to everyone around him - and takes his leave. John goes back to glaring indiscriminately at anything in sight.

* * *

John doesn't do well with sitting on his thumbs. The days he spends waiting to get up off the bed are terrible. Not as terrible as the time he tried to get up early and cracked his knee against the ground when he collapsed, but a near thing.

So when he's finally released from his medically induced confinement, he's almost vibrating with pent up energy. There's no way he's going out hunting in the snow again so soon after recovery, but there is a room he knows of that could occupy him. He usually avoids it, because Raven spends a lot of her time there, but he needs to put his hands on /something.

When he opens the doors to what had been dubbed the Scrap Room, filled with tables of various pieces of junk and tech, his first instinct is to turn back around. Raven is looking up from where she's working on something, staring directly at him. She looks warier than he remembers her being, like the ground is slowly swallowing her spark.

Ignoring her, or at least pretending to, he makes his way to a table with some sheets of metal propped against it. The two guards in the room eye him as he picks up one of the thinner sheets and a knife and begins to cut into it.

It's not an easy task, but focusing on his work calms him, helps to clear his mind. Before he even realizes it, it’s already curfew and the guards are telling the room to clear out. Grabbing the materials he claimed, he hauls them over to the back of the room, informally known as the area where works in progress are placed.

When he gets back to his room, it takes Monty asking what happened to him to notice he'd worked his hands raw.

"Jesus, Murphy, what the hell were you doing? You were just released from medical."

John doesn't get to answer before Monty is ushering him back out of the room and getting permission from Jackson to ice his hands in the snow for a few minutes. He feels the cold down to his bones, but he's not sure it's from the weather.

* * *

John tries to be more aware of his hands themselves over the next few days, rather than just what they're doing, but he still manages to bloody up the strips of cloth they're wrapped in each time.

As curfew rolls closer, he belatedly realizes that he hasn't seen Emori in weeks and packs up early. A few interested glances follow him, but nobody ever makes eye contact with him outside of Raven and her boyfriend, who he can now identify as Wick. Of course, he has no interest in any sort of contact with either of them.

He heads out and down the corridor until he gets to where Emori is, and she frowns at him through the glass before the guard lets him in.

"Where have you been?"

He leans his shoulder against the wall and looks at her. She seems more fatigued than he remembers. Maybe it's just everyone lately. “On bed rest. Something about me seems to cause violent behavior in others.”

She snorts. “Your mouth? Your own behavior?”

“Maybe. I'm leaning towards bad luck.”

“You don't believe in fate, do you, John?” she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. “I don't either. I wish I did. Life would be easier if you thought everything had a meaning, a purpose. It gives you strength.”

“It's not real strength. They're putting faith into something that's not real.”

“It doesn't need to be tangible to make you stronger or weaker. It's real to them. That's what matters.”

“Sure must be nice to be delusional.”

She rolls her eyes and some of the tension leaves the room. Despite what some people may think, John is not completely self-unaware. The conversation feels too heavy, too close to open wounds.

“Where is Bellamy?”

“Some Grounder capital. Camp Jaha is trying to get control of the mountain. It's a bit of a touchy topic, what with how similar we are to the people who locked them up like animals and then bled them. At least they got bled by needles and not a hundred different cuts.”

Her good hand reaches out to his leg, just to press her knuckles into his calf, an indicator that whatever he’s gone through isn't happening now. It's grounding, and he takes a deep breath.

“So have you been staring at the ceiling in silence the whole time you've been away?”

“Yeah.” He doesn't want to tell her about the metalwork and he doesn't care to examine why.

“Must've been torture.”

His mouth tilts down of its own accord and he doesn't answer. It's ridiculous, how every conversation ends up being too uncomfortable for him to finish.

“I have to go. The guards will be kicking me out in a minute anyway.”

He turns away from her, not caring to see the look on her face. It sucks, being the one that's always left behind. He gets it; he doesn't need to experience it by proxy.

“Goodnight, John.”

Except it's not, and he barely sleeps at all.

* * *

“Oh, no you don't.”

John looks down at the hand around his arm and then up at Monty. “Don't what, exactly?”

“You're not going to go do whatever it is you do that messes up your hands. Give them time to heal if you can't be nice to them.”

“So, what do you propose I do all day instead?”

“Help me gather some herbs from the woods.”

John sighs, but he doesn't say no. “What are we gathering?”

“I have a picture of it that Lincoln drew. Hold on.” He lets go of John’s arm to fish the paper out of his pocket. They stare at it while they walk and he explains the uses of the plant. John zones out, but Monty seems okay talking to himself.

* * *

“I don't see this damn plant anywhere!”

“It's here somewhere!” Monty calls back from somewhere out of sight.

John huffs and shuffles more snow away from the base of a tree. No plant. He's beginning to wonder if this whole thing is some elaborate ruse to make him and/or Monty walk around in the cold all day.

When he makes for the next tree, he hears someone breathing. His muscles tense and he reaches for the knife on his thigh. Taking another few steps toward the sound, he realizes that the breathing is abnormal. It sounds like whoever or whatever it is is having trouble pulling air into their lungs. He knows the feeling well enough.

Making sure not to cause too much disturbance to the brush, he follows the sound east, away from Monty. It's probably not the best decision he’s made, but it's certainly not the worst. When he pinpoints the noise to be coming from behind a bush in a close cluster of trees, he makes a wide arc around it.

There's a form huddled behind the shrubbery, resting against a tree trunk. Taking into account the red patches of snow around it, it's either wounded or has recently wounded something else. Getting closer, John sees it’s just a boy, and he’s bleeding from his left side. He looks like he’s sleeping, but John readies his knife anyway. He considers leaving the boy there - Grounders have never done anything for him - but he knows that Abby and Monty would want the chance to help, not to mention ask what he’s doing hanging around camp.

John closes in and pulls out the small heap of twine he pocketed from the Scrap Room. He wraps it around the boy’s wrists and ties it off. The kid doesn't stir, so he’s either exhausted, badly banged up, or both.

“Monty! I need you to come over here!”

“Did you find it?” Monty yells, sounding excited.

“I found _something_.”

* * *

“This is not a plant, Murphy.”

“Thanks for pointing that out, Einstein. I'm sure Miller will be just blown away by your observational skills.”

Monty takes a moment to glare at him before turning to the boy in the snow. “Should we bring him back to camp or get someone to come out here and take a look at him? We don't know the extent of his wounds. Maybe you can go have someone contact Abby?”

“Fine. I'm sure she will be thrilled with my penchant for finding people in the forest.”

* * *

Abby, of course, would like to see the kid herself, but she can’t, so she sends Jackson as well as a guard.

He has to endure a game of twenty questions for the first part of the walk, but they eventually fall into silence.

When the kid is within view, he circles back, ready to spend the rest of the day in the Scrap Room, but Monty jogs to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You're not getting out of gathering duty that easily.”

“I'm going to get frostbite out here.”

Monty just smiles. “You'll be fine.”

“Get your boyfriend to help you next time.”

“Stop. He’s not my boyfriend, Murphy. He’s taken.”

The comment pulls him up short. Since when was Miller taken? “By who?”

“Someone from the farming station we picked up last week. They were dating before we came to the ground. His name is Ryan or something.”

He probably knows the first and last name of whoever it is because he probably knew the guy on the Ark, but John lets it go. “At least you know he won't have a problem with touching dicks.”

Monty trips over nothing and shoots a scowl over his shoulder. “Just find the plant.”

He starts inspecting the ground like it’s the single most important thing he’ll do in his life and John scoffs. “I'm just saying, at least you know you have a shot. Just break them up.”

“You really have no moral compass, do you?”

“What’s a moral?”

Monty chuckles, squatting down to examine something. “Nothing you've ever had the misfortune of being hampered down with.”

“Sounds like a bummer.”

“If you think that's bad, wait until you hear about the side effects, like _guilt_ and _obligation_.” He pushes more snow away from the plant to get a better look at it. “Hey, bring that drawing over here.”

“Guilt and Obligation sound like storybook characters,” John says, straightening the paper and crouching down to hold it to the plant for comparison. “Are you making these things up?”

“I swear I’m not; they're real things that normal people have to deal with. I think we’ve got it. I think this is it. Check around this area for more.”

John scrubs a hand across his face and starts searching again, even though he can't feel his fingers anymore. Monty owes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personal opinions/complaining ahead: 
> 
> Sorry for taking so long with this, everyone; canon is robbing me of my will to write this fic a bit. Lexa is dead, the Pike plot line is boring and upsetting, people are making bad decisions, Lincoln probs won't be in the show much longer, and Bellamy is officially on my Eternal Shit List. (Sorry, but you don't just slaughter a bunch of innocent sleeping people sent to protect you and get a free pass when you finally realize you're doing some fucked up things.)  
> Hear me sigh.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was finally pestered into writing another chapter. And I say pestered in the best way bc honestly if people don't bother me, I will give up on things way too easily.
> 
> New character is introduced this chapter, and I might include some clexa next chapter. (Fuck, I miss them. My heart hurts.)
> 
> As it's been such a long wait for this chapter, I wanted it up ASAP and haven't proofed it at all. Please tell me if there's any mistakes!

When Octavia opens the door to their room, followed by the boy from the woods, John takes the opportunity to distract himself from the boring conversation Monty and Miller are having.

“What's with the kid?”

Octavia places a hand on the boy’s shoulder and directs him to the ladder on the bed. He climbs it silently and sits, avoiding eye contact.

“His name is Navo. He’s going to be staying in here, at least until Bellamy comes back. We’re not sure what to do with him right now. Abby said that Lexa doesn't know of any boys his age unaccounted for, and when we asked him about going back to his people, he seemed scared.”

Miller leans back against the wall and crosses his legs. “Lincoln, Emori, Navo. We’re going to be a camp of castouts at this rate.”

“This camp wouldn't be here if Jaha hadn't ejected a hundred teenagers off the ark,” John says. “We’re all castouts, in the end.”

Whereas Monty and Miller seem to contemplate that statement, Octavia rolls her eyes, like she thinks he’s being pretentious, and comes to sit by him.

“I'm sleeping down here,” she says. “If you try anything weird, I _will_ break you.”

Miller frowns and slides off the bottom bunk. “Speaking of sleep, I should probably go see Bryan before lights out. See you guys.”

They all nod at each other, but John doesn't miss the way Monty doesn't look quite as happy as he did a minute ago. He shrugs it off and glances up at the boy. “So, Navo, you speak English?”

Navo’s eyes flicker to him for a millisecond, then back to his hands.

“He knows enough,” Octavia answers, “but he doesn't speak much.”

“So he’s just going to be following you around from now on?”

“Actually, it’s kind of all our jobs to keep an eye on him.”

John freezes mid-stretch. “What do you mean _all_ our jobs?”

“I can't look after him all the time. And it’s not that big of a deal. He’s not a baby. It won't be that big of a responsibility.”

Heaving a sigh, John lies down on his back and closes his eyes. “Whatever. He better not try to stab me in the back.”

“Why would he stab you in the back?”

“Don't ask me why Grounders do the things they do.”

A balled up piece of fabric hits him in the face and he shakes it off. He’s sure if he were looking, he’d see Monty and Octavia wearing matching looks of disapproval.

* * *

It’s two days later that John ends up with Navo. After a single failed attempt at making conversation, John resigns himself to having a second shadow for the day. After breakfast, he heads to the Scrap Room and grabs his project from the back.

“Feel free to use this stuff,” he says, waving an arm around the room.

The boy doesn't move, so he just rolls his eyes and gets to work. The staff he’s working on is almost done. He didn't mean to make a staff, of all things, but it’s just where he ended up.

He’d been trying to figure out a way to turn it into a proper weapon that could actually be smuggled out of the Scrap Room, and he’s finally struck with an idea. His focus is so intense he forgets Navo is even with him. It's undecided whether the silence is nice or just freaky.

Either way, he’s sure the kid isn't going to pick now to turn into Chatty Kathy and spill his secret, so he hooks the last piece of his staff into place and walks out of the room.

* * *

He takes the staff out to the edge of the woods, just far enough in that nobody will see him through the trees, and pulls off the end stoppers, revealing two freshly sharpened blades.

Trying first with one hand, then two, to swing the staff around, he comes to multiple conclusions within the first few minutes. The first is that he needs to tie some sort of leather onto the staff for better grip. The second is that he’s terrible at using it as a weapon against anyone but himself.

After knocking himself with it a few times, Navo finally steps forward and places a hand on the staff. “Like this.” He pushes one of John’s hands further up the length and then guides him through a motion.

John attempts the move by himself, earning raised eyebrows from Navo. It's the most emotion he’s seen on the boy’s face all day. “You look like watching me do it pains you. By all means, show me how it's done,” he says, holding the staff out in front of him.

Navo takes it and steps back a few paces before beginning his demonstration. The movements blend into one another fluidly and he never strikes the ground, despite the weapon being so large compared to his own height. He ends with one of the blades a few inches from John’s neck, but he quickly drops it and hands it back.

“Could you teach me to use this?”

Navo’s chin tilts up a bit more and he stares. After just a long enough wait that John is wondering if he understood the question and feeling ridiculous for asking a twelve year old for help, he says, “Tomorrow. In sunlight.”

John looks up and, sure enough, it’s close to sundown. The day had passed without him realizing it. Navo hadn't even asked for more food. He bends down to grab the metal stoppers for his staff and nods. “Let’s go eat.”

* * *

Navo sticks around John after that and they fall into routine, spending a portion of each day training in the woods. He’s not going to be a warrior any time soon, but it’s something to keep his hands and mind busy.

“Someone seems kind of attached to you,” Monty says one night after Navo has already fallen asleep.

“Nah, just have a similar hobby.”

“And what's that? You guys have been in the woods a lot.”

If he thinks he’s being sly, he's sadly mistaken. That’s no way to get information out of someone.

“Well, who doesn't like a little fresh air?”

Monty gives him a Look. That Look that says _not buying your shit_. “In any case, he seems to get along with you better than anyone else. Surprising, given your track record with children, and, well, everyone else.”

“Strange how things work out, right? I mean, I'm sure you didn't imagine you’d be here right now when you were smoking up on the Ark.”

“Point taken. Just don't corrupt him.”

“You barely even know him. How do you know he won't corrupt _me_?”

Monty just gives him a Look again.

* * *

“Hey. Hey, move over.”

John blinks up into relative darkness. “Bellamy?”

“It’s not Santa Claus. Move over. I'm beat.”

John shifts to the right side of his blanket while Bellamy asks Octavia to move too. There’s two audible thumps as he removes his shoes, then he slides in between them.

“Who’s in O’s bed?”

“Random Grounder. Nobody knows where he came from. Now shut up; I'm trying to sleep.”

Bellamy answers by yanking the pillow away from him, making his head thunk onto the floor.

“Asshole.”

* * *

“Now what happens?”

John looks over at Navo from where he’s resting against a tree. He can't really feel his fingers or toes anymore, but he has no reason to rush back to camp. “What happens with what?”

“What happens to me? The rest of your people are back.”

John shrugs and rights himself. “I don't know. I guess we’ll find out.”

In the silence, they hear footsteps and Navo quickly reaches down to cap off the staff. After a few long seconds, Bellamy steps into the clearing.

“Heard you guys would be out here,” he says, then tilts his head toward Navo. “Commander Lexa wants to talk to him.”

John nods Navo forward and reaches out to grab the staff when he’s close enough. “Why is Lexa _here_?”

“She wants to oversee our relocation to the mountain. She has some others with her too.”

“It's official then? We’re moving?”

“Yeah. We have to rename the place though.”

They walk the rest of the way back to the ark in silence, until Bellamy opens a door and tells Navo to go in. When the door closes, he turns back around and John belatedly realizes that he’s trailing him without reason, like he might’ve done when they first got acquainted.

“So,” Bellamy says, “What's the story with the kid?”

“No idea. Found him passed out in the woods. Nobody knows where he’s from.”

“If anyone’s going to know who he is, it’ll be the room full of Grounders we just sent him to.” He glances around before adding, “And if they don't, well, that's a little suspicious, don't you think?”

“I'm not one to trust Grounders, but there are a lot of them, and it’s nothing like the Ark down here; there’s no digital way to keep track of everyone.”

Bellamy pauses and stares at him. “It’s really weird when you’re logical, Murphy.”

“I keep telling people I'm an untapped fountain of wisdom. Nobody wants to believe me.”

* * *

It's that very same night that Abby and Kane announce to Camp Jaha that they’re moving to the mountain. They give a drawn out speech about leaving the past behind and forging a new future, one of peace and prosperity. The mountain base will be renamed Arkadia and the larger hospital there will be open not just to its’ Arker residents, but to the Grounders as well. Not that it’s likely many Grounders will want to set foot there.

“How do you guys feel about going back there?” Harper asks later, knees pulled up to her chest.

Monty shakes his head slightly, mouth tight. “How do you sleep on the bed of someone you killed?”

Miller places a hand on his leg, but he doesn't look up from his lap.

“Speaking for myself, I'll be sleeping better on their beds than our floor.”

Everyone looks at him like he’s something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of their collective shoe.

“I see you still have no conscious,” Bellamy chides.

“Listen, it’s not like you guys just decided you were going to go slaughter a bunch of people for no reason. They were a community sustaining themselves by bleeding others. They captured a group of kids and tried to kill them. Yeah, there were innocents caught in the crossfire, but their deaths were the fault of the sickos in command up there.”

The room’s quiet is stifling and John grits his teeth. It doesn't matter what he says or does; people are always going to stare.

Monty leans forward off the bed and pats him on the shoulder silently and he keeps his face indifferent, but he feels something. It feels like, maybe, this is a group of people he can trust now. Maybe he doesn't have to live his life constantly planning his next exit strategy.

“Why is it that when you’re not acting like a dick, you just sound pretentious?”

The feeling dissipates and he throws the nearest object at Bellamy’s head.

* * *

The next few weeks are non-stop work. Groups are sent up first to clean out the mountain not only of bodies and blood, but any personal items. Abby reasons that they don't need reminders of who used to live there and that the dead have no need for personal belongings. Jasper goes a bit crazy about it though. John isn't even sure what he does most days, aside from drink too much booze. Monty had tried to talk to him, but it didn't end well. Some wounds never heal, he guesses.

After the place is cleared out, teams are assembled to move items from the camp to the mountain. Kane has his own group of people working out who and what are going to be place where. It’s like the good old days before nukes sent half of humanity fleeing into the sky, when families would move into new houses. Or, how he assumes it was like. He doesn't have any personal experience to base it on. It was rare you moved rooms on the Ark.

Anyway, everyone is pretty much exhausted by the time they’ve finally and officially set up as Arkadia in the mountain.

“The rooms are bigger,” Monroe says, sprawling across one of the beds. “We’re allowed to choose where we stay, right?”

“Unless the chancellor has a problem with it,” Monty says, leaning against a wall, looking uncomfortable. Miller is standing nearby, with his boyfriend pressed close against his side for support. The thing is, if you haven't been through at least a similar trauma, any support you're going to provide is going to be dismal. There’s no real way for Bryan to understand what Miller or any of the others locked up here went through.

“I would feel better if we stayed together,” Harper says. “At least for now. We can share a few of the bigger rooms?”

Monty nods and grabs her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Let’s unpack then.”

* * *

After some searching and furniture moving, they end up in a set of two interconnected rooms. Him, Bellamy, Monty, and Harper are in one, and Bryan, Monroe, and Miller in the next. Octavia and Lincoln had opted for a separate area. John’s not really sure why he didn't insist on having his own room himself. It’s not like anyone would've complained. But, well, the decision has been made now.

In the middle of setting his stuff on the shelf by his bed, a hand taps his shoulder. He looks up to see Bellamy holding out a book.

“I found this. Thought you might like it.”

He takes the book and places it with the others he has. “Thanks.”

Someone whistles and he turns to see Clarke standing in the doorway. “Never thought I'd see the day Murphy says thank you.”

“I never thought I’d see the day the princess removed the stick out of her ass. Wait,” -he holds up a finger- “I still haven't.”

Bellamy laughs and Clarke huffs, like she’s already done with their conversation. The way she’s holding herself is different from usual though. She’s stiffer, her arms tucked away and clutching at her jacket, and she’s keeping her eyes trained on him, like she doesn't want to look at her surroundings. It’s clear that being here bothers her.

“I'm just checking in to see that everything’s going alright. And to tell you guys that you need to post your names on the door when you get the chance. If you need something to write on, let me know. I'm just down the hall.”

She gives a small smile to Monty and Harper, who are sitting shoulder to knee on Harper’s bed, then turns around. She pauses long enough to get out a bitter, “Welcome to Arkadia, guys,” before she disappears down the corridor.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please do sub and/or leave a kudo/comment.  
> You can find me @ commanderhardass.tumblr.com  
> I take fic requests for most pairings as long as I am in the fandom.  
> Thanks so much for reading. :)


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